The Final Words
by Deidara97
Summary: John finds himself helplessly lost as Sherlock's life is on the line. Sherlock's dying words change everything. How does John react! Johnlock, Very mild car crash imagery.


**A/N** Hey guys! I'm really new to posting my works, so I'm a bit nervous. But if you're into dramatic Johnlock, I you should really like it! I hope you enjoy reading as much as I enjoyed writing!

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It only took a matter of seconds. Within the blink of an eye, the cab had been hurdled into the side of the old post office, its brick walls enveloping any chance of escape. Everything went black for a short moment in the blonde's sight as he heard the bricks crater into the roof of the vehicle, shattered glass falling onto his hair and clothes. He forced himself to open his eyes and regain focus. He first saw the cab driver lying hunched over the center console of the van, and struggled himself forward to see to him. As he moved, a sharp pain shot through his body forcing an anguished cry from his bloodstained throat. He glanced over to the seat next to him, finally realizing just how bad the collision had been. The interior of the cab was not even recognizable with the driver's door only half attached to the mangled frame and the driver side door displaced inwards nearly three feet. That's when John saw him. His body was pressed up against what would have been the side of the vehicle with only his lower torso and legs visible. The rest of him was swallowed by the shattered window and impacted door.

_Oh, God, no._ John had forgotten all about his own suffering in that moment as his jaw fell. He moved through the stiffness that was tormenting him and reached towards his best friend. As he pulled on the brunettes shoulders, he yelled through a cracked voice.

"Sherlock! Sh-Sherlock! Listen to me! Sherlock!"

There was no response from the man beside him. He managed to pull the shoulders and head of his friend out from the jaws of the window, causing more lacerations as he went. John could hardly recognize his flat-mate due to the streams of blood that flowed down his face, forming many tributaries and pooling on the velvet scarf he was wearing. John watched his friend's eyelids, heavy with blood, struggle to stay open, and his pupils rolling back slightly.

"Sherlock! Look at me, it's John! I'm right here!" John reached out and turned Sherlock's head to face him. The eye's opened only a bit more.

John was emotionally overwrought with his friend's condition. This shouldn't have bothered him. He was accustomed to working under pressure from his tours in Afghanistan. His body moved without hesitation, but his mind was stuck.

"We're going to get you out of here, okay?" John looked into the barely lucid, aqua eyes.

He began pulling off the scarf and trying to assess the situation. This was hindered by the lack of light and his own physical condition. He knew the adrenaline would soon be gone and there was little time to work.

John couldn't find any severe injuries to his partner's body, so he deduced that the major injuries would be limited to internal bleeding and the innumerable ailments that fall under the category "head injury."

He needed help. Sherlock needed to be in ambulatory care and taken to a hospital immediately.

He fumbled around in his the pockets of his coat looking for his mobile.

_What the hell is that idiot doing? Come back, John_. Unable to express his thoughts, Sherlock let the exhaustion sweep over him.

"Damn! Where the hell did I put it?!" John cursed himself until he found it. He was about to begin dialing when he heard a faint sound. _Sirens?_

"I already called." An unsteady voice spoke from the front seat. "They're coming."

"Oh, thank God." _I must've been out longer than I thought. _John let out a small sigh of relief, still knowing all too well that they were not out of the woods yet. Rather, they were still very lost in the forest. The pain shot down his spine and engulfed him again.

It was at that moment John heard a small whisper coming from his friend's mouth.

"Sherlock?" He rushed back to the man's side, his hair now coated in a thick layer of matted blood.

"J-John…" He strained himself to move but to no avail. _Damn. Is this the time? I shouldn't have waited this long… No, John doesn't need to hear it… but I don't see myself making it out of this one. This is my only chance. _

"No, st-stop moving! You'll be fine! Just stop moving! The ambulance is coming… Do you hear it?!"

"John…" The brunette was more alert now, but he was fading quickly. "I-I have … to tell you something…" He managed to stay focused on the faint glimmer in John's eyes.

"Whatever it is, you can tell me when you're in recovery. You'll strain yourself!"

_Recovery? You're a terrible liar, John. But I guess that's okay. People believe what they want to hear. After all, you are the doctor. _

"I…" John was crouching on the seat next to him now with one arm behind his friend, supporting his weight so the first responders could tear open the door. They could be heard shouting outside, the sirens blaring.

"It's fine, I've got him! He has internal bleeding and possible concussion. I'm doing what I can, but he needs hospital immediately!" John was yelling at the men trying to force their way into the car.

"It'll take some time!" One of the uniformed men shouted back. Sherlock was distantly following everything with his eyes.

"Everything'll be okay." John spoke exasperatedly to his friend, clutching his frail figure close to his own. A feigned smile was forming.

_ Are you crying, John…? I guess this is it then... _

"John." The blue eyes were softer than John ever remembered seeing them.

"Shh, just a little longer, okay?"

"Listen." Through the agony, his voice maintained clarity. Each breath was shallow and labored. "I've been meaning to tell you this for a while…"

"Wh…" The blonde stopped himself then smiled. "Make it brief, Sherlock." There were definite tears falling from his face, mixing with the pools of blood on Sherlock's coat.

"I don't know how it happened, or why… and… I don't really understand it…" That all too familiar feeling was forming in Sherlock's gut again.

"What are you going on about?" The dark-haired man's gaze shifted downward.

"This feels right, being by your side like this, John…" It swept over him, like it always did, throwing all comfort and rationality far from view. "You've taught me a lot about life over the years… and I know there is still so much that I am oblivious to… but the most important thing you've taught me… is how to put myself aside and care for other people.

"Sherlock," John let out a small sniff.

"I'm not done… You're interrupting me..." John had never been so happy to hear his friend's cold, biting words.

"I have put your life in danger so many times… and every time, I hate myself for it… I have never been so afraid, so happy… as when it comes to you…

John's tender eyes were overflowing with tears that fell onto Sherlock's face now, taking with them the blood that masked his identity.

"I didn't want to make you uncomfortable… or ruin our friendship by saying this… but I _do_ want you to hear it…"

"No, jus-"

"John… I love you."

As the words flowed through crimson encrusted lips, both men became completely oblivious to the sounds of the sirens or the shouting responders. The glimmer of light in John's eyes hid itself from sight as John held him close and sobbed into the woolen coat.

"You're not going to die, Sherlock." John choked on his breath. "Stop saying things like that."

Sherlock felt relieved and relaxed in John's arms, his face pressed against John's shoulder. _So warm._

John pulled away from his failing friend. _No, don't go… Come back, John. _

"What the bloody hell are you doing? Hurry!" Desperation rang through John's voice.

As he said that, they finally broke open enough room to allow a person to pass.

"Alright, Sherlock. We're going to move you and get you to hospital, and you'll be perfectly fine." He tried to regain his composure, but it was in vain.

_Absolutely terrible. _Sherlock smiled.

* * *

_I am so sorry… Sherlock! God, just please, _please_ wake up! _

Tears were falling furiously from the destitute eyes and onto the eggshell bed sheets. John wished and prayed to a God he had turned his back on that his only friend should awake from this dreadful coma.

It had been three days and the doctor had just told him that if Sherlock failed to show responsive signs within 24 hours, the probability of his awakening would diminish to almost nothing—it was low enough as things were.

There was extensive swelling of the brain, hemorrhaging of the brain and stomach, a fractured skull, a partially impacted lung, dislodged C5 vertebra, and six broken ribs. Dr. Watson did not need anyone to tell him about his friend's chances.

There was nothing else surgery could do for him, it was all up to chance now— at least, what the old John would have considered chance.

Being surrounded by death in the military made it easy to disassociate with the spiritual aspect, but when it came to Sherlock, John would not sit quietly and accept chance.

"You incompetent bastard! How the hell did you screw up the surgery?!" John was yelling at one of the surgeons in a vacant hallway.

"Sir," the surgeon hesitantly spoke. "We did all that we could in the surgery. There was just too much time between the collision and his arrival. I assure you that we did the best we could and that I am deeply sorry about your friend's condition. But it's all up to him now."

"All up to him?! Well wh-" The blonde began a scathing retort, but stopped himself mid-sentence. He couldn't remember the last time he had been so flustered. "No. You know what. I'm done. We are done having this conversation." John turned around and stormed off knowing all too well that every word the surgeon spoke was true.

He returned to the intensive care area and found the bed his friend was in. He walked into the enclosed space and closed the curtain behind him. He took a diligent look at the chart the nurse had left to double check her work.

_Damn, she's right. _

The denial-struck man pulled the bedside chair closer, let out a deep sigh, and buried his face into his hands. After a moment, he looked up at the motionless man lying on the cold hospital bed. A ventilator mask covered all but just above his wing-like cheekbones, and bandages covered down to his eyebrows. All that was visible were his two eyes, peacefully closed, as if they were ready to open at any moment.

The minutes turned into hours, and each day felt like a lifetime for John.

He sat up and reached a hand out to rest on the edge of the bed. He let all of the thoughts his denial had been restricting overwhelm him. He clenched the sheet in his bruised hands as the floodgates of his emotions were broken down.

The first tear landed.

"Please… Sherlock… I need you to wake up…" A steady stream of tears was falling, augmenting a small pool that had formed on the thin sheet.

"God," despair rang through John's voice as a heart-wrenching memory forced its way to the surface, stopping the flow of tears, if for only a brief second. "I've already lost you once…. I can't go through that again, Sherlock." The pale, despondent eyes tightly shut and the tears fell faster now than they had ever before.

_John? Is that you? _Over the whirring and ringing of the life support machines, Sherlock could hear a faint whimpering. _I'm not dead then? Not yet at least. _Sherlock felt a heavy weight on his right arm.

He tried desperately to open his eyes, but it was to no avail. He was at least conscious, but not responsive. He could hear the nurse come in and speak to John, and he could hear John responding, but the words came as indistinguishable murmurs. The sound of John's voice was ethereal to Sherlock. After the conversation between the two had ended, the weight on his arm lifted.

He felt pressure in his hand. _John?_ _What's happening?_ That soft, beautiful voice embraced him once again, but it was still so incoherent. The pressure in his palm was released and he heard already faint footsteps become more distant.

_John! Come back! Where are you going? _Sherlock's heart began racing and he felt a rush of panic sweep over him. _Don't go, John. _

The machines in the room were thrown into a panic as the small amount of lucidity Sherlock had regained quickly slithered away. The slow, steady beating of Sherlock's heart had turned into a flurry of erratic pluses, causing nurses and doctors to push John out of the way as they rushed to his side.  
John felt his knees become weak as he watched his friend be injected and prodded all over by the medical staff. _This is not good… This is really bad, Sherlock… Stop it. Wake up this instant! No… I… can't let you die. _

John couldn't sit back helplessly and watch his only friend die at some other doctor's hands. He ran over to the bedside, pushing two of the nurses out of the way abruptly.

"Sherlock!" John was leaning over the bed, shouting in full voice. "Sherlock! Can you hear me!?" He had taken the cold, pale hand into his own and held it close to his neck. His face was inches from the pale lids that concealed John's favorite blue eyes. "This isn't funny anymore, Sherlock! Do you hear me?! Wake up!" The tears were falling onto Sherlock's ventilator mask as the desperation caused John's voice to tremble. A wave of reality came over him.

_Wake up? John? Are you seriously shouting at me in the ICU?_ He felt a cold pang on his cheek just below his eye. _Are you… Crying?_ A small smile forced its way to Sherlock's face, but was hidden by the translucent plastic concealing his features._ I will wake up, John. Just don't let go of me again._

John was oblivious, and his eyelids had given themselves over to the agonized tears that would not stop coming. He clenched Sherlock's hand even harder and pressed the back of it against his face. "Sherlock," he managed to cry, his voice much softer now than it had been.

_Yes, John? _Sherlock called upon every ounce of his energy to straighten his delicate fingers against John's tear-stained face.

The staff in the room stood back in shock and awe that the man who should have flat-lined moments ago was stabilizing himself, the erratic beeping steadying to a relaxed pattern.

John disregarded the action the first time, but when Sherlock contracted and straightened his fingers a second time, John's eyes sprang open.

He pulled Sherlock's hand away from his face to reassure what he felt. Again, Sherlock's fingers contracted.

Immediately, John's attention shifted to Sherlock's eyes, which were now open, even if only a sliver. "Oh, my God," John exclaimed in a breathless whisper, tears still falling uncontrollably. "You're awake!"

His voice was light, airy, and almost inaudible to Sherlock. His smile widened as his cheekbones rose past the edges of the ventilator mask.

For the first time since the accident, John smiled. And the tears falling at that moment were not tears of anger, frustration, fear, or despair. They were tears of overwhelming elation.

* * *

The blue eyes strained to adapt to the light in the room. _Where the hell am I now?_ He looked around for his friend, and as always, without fail, John was there.

"John?" He turned his neck only slightly to face the blonde.

"What is it, Sherlock?" An eager smile that could not be removed worked its way into Sherlock's heart, forcing him to smile as well.

"What the hell is going on?" He attempted to look around, but as he tried to turn his head further, a deep ache shot through his entire body, forcing a sharp wince to contort his face.

"Careful, Sherlock," John leaned in as if he could somehow alleviate some of his friend's pain. "They just took the neck brace off yesterday!"

Sherlock looked back at him with a blank expression, his face slowly returning to its usual cold stare.

"Right, where to begin…" John looked off pensively. "There was a cab accident…"

"Of course there was a bloody cab accident!" He regretted his lash as it came with another wave of pain. "What have they got me on, anyway?" Sherlock glanced over at the IV hanging to his left.

"That's not important. Look, the cab was hit from the side as we were passing through an intersection. The investigators estimate the car was going at least 105 kilometers per hour. You ended up with several broken ribs, one of them puncturing your lung, a broken neck, brain hemorrhaging, and some other minor internal bleeding.

"Which vertebra?"

"C5, but they were able to correct it in surgery. There's no damage to the spinal cord, but you may need some physical therapy. They also had to remove one of your ribs and drill a hole in your skull so the blood could drain."

"Hm, delightful! What about you?" Sherlock gave his friend an interrogative eye.

"Oh, I'm perfectly fine. A few cuts n' bruises, but that's the extent of it." This raised a speculative squint.

"You have whiplash."

John's face went blank. "It's only minor, and anyway, I wasn't finished explaining what happened."

"It's hardly minor, but very well, go on, then."

"As I was saying, there were multiple surgeries, and you spent about 13 hours under total. They never could wake you up… You stayed in a coma for almost 62 hours…" John looked down and his face saddened. "You had us all very worried, Sherlock." He looked back up at the cold blue eyes again.

"Well, you can stop worrying, John. I am perfectly fine!" Sherlock attempted to sit up.

"What the bloody hell do you think you're doing?!" John stood up in a panic.

"Getting out of here… But why does it hurt so damned much?" Sherlock was sitting with his legs draped over the side of the bed. "Watson, where's my chart?"

"Sherlock," John was calmly walking over to the opposite side of the bed with a long face to where Sherlock was trying to "escape." "You're only on a few mild sedatives and some OTC meds… I told the doctors that once you got to recovery, they needed to cut you off morphine." He grabbed Sherlock's legs with one arm and lifted them back to their horizontal position while his other arm caught Sherlock so he didn't fall into the headboard. Sherlock held onto his friend and cursed him at the same time.

"Damn! Why would you do that, John?!" His face was trapped in a constant wince due to all the commotion.

"Because you're an addict." His voice was firm, yet maintained a certain softness. He gently let Sherlock's head fall to the pillow below and removed his arm from under him. "There you go. You should really try getting some rest, Sherlock, especially after that stunt."

"I don't want to rest. I'm restless. I need entertainment." He tried to lift an arm, but after working his hand and forearm off the bed, decided continuing would be too painful.

"I think I liked you better in the coma." John mumbled under his breath.

"I heard that," the brunette growled. John's response was light laughter. After a moment, Sherlock joined him.

Through the pain they laughed together, each one enjoying the other's company.

Their laughter subsided, and John was the one to break the silence. He had had plenty of time to organize his thoughts while Sherlock was asleep.

"Do you remember much of anything? From that night I mean, in the cab."

"Not really." Sherlock knew exactly what John was getting at. _What to do… I could pretend I have no recollection and, knowing John, the confrontation could be avoided. That doesn't change the fact that John remembers, so maybe I should diffuse the situation… but if I pretend to recall the information then John would also be uncomfortable… "_I remember the sirens, and the sounds of cars' metals fusing together, and feeling my neck snap… That part was rather interesting… but other than that, it's all a bit hazy.

"Hm," John folded his hands together and tilted his head down, "I see." There was a long pause before he continued. "So, the great Sherlock Homes is missing a bit of his precious memories?" He looked up at the bedridden man coyly. Sherlock couldn't register his tone and actions, causing him to squint.

"You said something to me in that cab before you passed out, Sherlock…"

"Did I?"

"Would you stop with the bloody act? Because not only is it extremely obvious to me that you're lying, but I am almost entirely certain that you were fully cognizant then." John's face was reddening as the annoyance shifted to frustration.

This forced Sherlock to face his own words which was the very last thing he wanted to do. "John," his eyes softened apologetically as they met his friend's. "I am _so_ sorry." His words were slow and sincere. This was a completely different man from the icy escapee only moments ago.

"I thought I– no, I _knew _I was going to die. I was _certain_ that that was my last opportunity to convey my feelings to you, and I… I didn't want to have any regrets, John." A pang of guilt tinted his expression. "But now, I wish had never have told you those things… I feel as if I just destroyed the only connection to another human being I've ever made…

Surprise struck John as he noticed Sherlock's trembling features. _Is he about to cry?_ "Sherlock… What things are they? Those things you wish you had never told me… I want to hear them, again." A coy smile graced John's face as he looked up to his friend.

Sherlock shot him an irritated stare. John leaned over the bed and took hold of Sherlock's arm with both hands.

"I mean it… I'm listening."

"John," the blue eyes searched anxiously, "why are you doing this? I understand if you never want to see me again. I get it... I crossed a line."

"Did you ever think that maybe I have feelings too, Sherlock?" John's eyes seemed hurt by his friend's dense thoughts.

"If that's the case, then why would you fervently deny it every _single_ time we are suggested as being anything more than flat-mates?"

"Is it really that hard for a genius like you to figure out? I was in denial, Sherlock." He had let go of Sherlock's hand for emphatic gestures. "Of course the analysis of our more-than-friends-less-than-lovers relationship had crossed my mind, but the only way I've ever dealt with it is by pushing it aside…" he paused for a long moment. "_I _should be the one who is sorry." His tone shifted, and his hand returned to Sherlock's. "I should've been more responsive… but I was afraid." His voice wavered only slightly as he felt himself begin to cry. The first tear formed as he felt Sherlock's hand shift and his fingers wrap around John's own.

"You're warm." Reflecting his words, his eyes were soft and deep, and they made John laugh.

"Yes, and you're rather cold." They were both smiling now.

"John, I…" he paused as if organizing his thoughts. "Before I met you, I was a complete sociopath… and now I am, well, _less_ of a sociopath. You taught me what is to actually feel. Simple things like fear, and pain, and even happiness meant nothing to me before… I don't know how you did it, John, but the last thing in the world I want to do is leave your side." John let out a held breath as a solitary tear fell from the angelic blue eyes. "I love you, Dr. Watson."

John smiled as the joyous tears flowed. "You really are mad, Homes … utterly neurotic." John escaped the grip Sherlock had on his hand and reached out to wipe a tear from the svelte cheekbone.

"John," Sherlock cried even more as he painstakingly reached for his friend's hand with his left arm. He pressed the rough hand into his face, delighting in its warmth.

"I love you, too, Sherlock…" He ran his fingers through the sable hair. "I really do."

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**A/N** Thank you so much for reading! I would love to hear your feedback! Again, this is my first time publishing anything here, so I am a bit nervous!


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